Irreplaceable
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: No one--or no thing--can replace Sam.


_Previously appeared in the zine _Brotherhood 5_ (2008), from Pyramids Press_

**Irreplaceable**  
K Hanna Korossy

Dean was hogging the blankets again.

It wasn't like he moved a lot while he slept, so Sam never understood how that happened. He was the one who tended to be a restless sleeper, yet night after night, Dean ended up with all the blankets. Sam had finally decided it was an older brother thing. Like making him sleep on the cold…metal…

Floor?

He came awake with a start, head jolting up, only to clunk down hard against an unyielding surface as pain lanced through it. This wasn't a bed, and Sam blinked at the space around him, trying to figure out where the heck he was.

A cage. Rigid mesh rose up on all sides and above him.

Okay, he hadn't been expecting that one.

Sam pushed up stiffly to one elbow, the cold of the steel floor having seeped into his muscles while he was out and tightened them, because apparently he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. This just got better and better. The last thing he remembered was heading down the street from the motel toward the library, and he'd been fully clothed then. Sam tried not to think about who or what had undressed him.

But the cage was definitely the biggest problem here. Thick chicken wire twisted into unyielding loops surrounded him on five sides, the solid steel bottom providing the sixth. The small door in one side was flush-tight steel, too, secured with a thick padlock. The whole thing wasn't big enough to fit his six-four frame, about five-feet square, but he could sit up and did. He took a quick inventory of his environment.

There wasn't much to see. The room around the cage was cavernous, fading into dark corners and edges and feeling echoing and empty. There was nothing close he could see, nor any indication where the room was located. The cage itself was otherwise empty, and Sam's _Hello! _echoed, unanswered.

"Terrific." Did his captor plan to feed him? Throw him a blanket? He was thirsty and cold, which didn't seem likely to change any time soon.

In fact, while he was wishing, Dean being there would have been nice, too. Not just because his brother would have a paperclip or something on him and would've been through that lock in five seconds flat, but also because the place was creeping Sam out and company would have been welcome. He wasn't _scared_, just, you know, not as crazy as Dean about waking up in new places half-naked.

"You will be ssscared," came the sibilant hiss out of the shadows behind him.

Sam whirled in his crouch to stare, fingers clamping onto wire mesh. "Who's there?"

"You will be ssscared," it repeated like a broken record, and…lurched forward.

Because it had no legs. No discernible body, for that matter, its sickly white form shapeless and undulating. It didn't have a mouth, either, but that didn't stop the hissing words as it oozed closer, making Sam recoil.

"Then you will be deeead."

All right, now he was a little scared.

00000

Dean glanced at his watch again, and paced the room one more time. Six hours. Okay, that seemed forever to him when he was anywhere but in his car or with a hot girl, but Sam in a library for six hours? Kid stuff. Sometimes he didn't think Sam was happy anywhere else. Six hours was nothing to his geek brother.

But Sam had gone to look up one thing. Had promised he'd be back in two hours, max. Had taken his phone with him, the phone Dean had already left three messages on. Either Sam had finally fallen into one of those massive tomes he liked to read, or something was wrong.

It was stupid, though. They were in a small town in the middle of Utah, hunting brownies, for God's sake. Literally: the spiteful critters were vandalizing churches and attacking congregants. But while they could be malicious to the point of lethal, they weren't smart or organized enough to go after their hunters. If something had gotten to Sam—and, God, wasn't that a Maalox-moment thought—it was either something or someone else.

Unfortunately, after a certain cannibalistic backwoods family in Minnesota, Dean had even less faith in the human race than ever. They were in _Utah_, home of scary Mormons and a serious lack of danger, but Sam was _gone_. That was a compelling enough reason to tear the place apart looking for his brother.

Still, it'd only been six hours. He wasn't in the library because Dean had checked there two hours before, but there was a university near town with its own libraries, two local historians, a government archive, and a friggin' bookmobile that circled the town every Tuesday. Sam could have gotten a lead and gone somewhere else. Without letting Dean know. Without taking his phone.

Yeah, he wasn't buying it, either.

Muttering a curse on small towns and missing brothers, Dean grabbed his jacket and gun and stormed out of the room.

If Sam was at the bookmobile, Dean was shaving the jerk's head.

00000

Sam had checked out every inch of the cage for weak spots, with no luck. The hinge-pins were locked into place, the door and walls fit together perfectly, and the whole thing was welded to the steel bottom. The mesh was unyielding, some investigatory pulling by Sam failing to bend even one of the loops of wire out of place. And thanks to his oh-so-not-reassuring state of undress, there was nothing he could use to pick the padlock. He was well and truly trapped. The only plus was that his captor had tumbled off some time before and left him alone.

Not that he was enjoying being alone all that much.

Sam took a breath, trying to settle his nerves. All right, this wasn't the first time he'd been in a cage. Not that he was getting used to it or anything, but a cage wasn't the worst place to be. True, it kept him trapped, but it also provided a layer between him and whatever it was that had put him there. He was untouched and relatively well, except for being so cold that his muscles ached from shivering. Dean had found him in Minnesota and would find him again. Sam just had to wait this out. And hope he didn't die of dehydration first, because that was one thing even a cage wouldn't protect him from.

"Anytime now, Dean," he murmured.

"Your brother isn't going to find you."

The voice startled him, again. But the really frightening part wasn't the unexpected company, or even that the thing had apparently read his mind. It was that it had spoken in Sam's voice this time.

He strained to see in the dark room, realizing abruptly that the meager light from before had come from a skylight that was rapidly darkening. Night was falling, and if Dean hadn't been looking for him yet, he would be now. Sam tried to take comfort in that even as a shudder ran through him when his captor came into sight.

It walked now, on two legs. The blob had formed into a mostly humanoid shape and was flesh-colored instead of dirty white. There were still no features, no mouth, but the face of its skin rippled and waved in what Sam had to say was one of the most disgusting displays he'd ever seen.

And Sam's voice was issuing from it.

"He won't come."

"I didn't say anyone was coming for me," Sam said quickly, trying not to wince at the mirror sound of his voice, or the faint hoarseness from lack of water. No way on earth was that thing going to sound more like him than he did.

It laughed warmly, the way Jess had always said she loved to hear him sound. Sam grit his teeth as it responded, "You didn't have to. I know what you know."

And suddenly, it made sense. The developing features, the voice, the download of Sam's brain. He'd seen this before. Not quite the same process, but shapeshifters worked a lot of different ways. Some shed their skins. Others stretched into new shapes. And a few molded themselves over time like those pods in the _Invasion of the Body Snatchers._

Lucky of him to find the rarest kind. The coincidence of being caught by a shapeshifter and caged again would have even Dean teasing him about the déjà vu-doo of it all. After Dean got him out. _You vanish like that again, I'm not looking for you_—was that what the shifter was banking on? If so, it hadn't looked too closely at Sam's memories of his brother.

He got his legs under him, coiled just in case the thing—he refused to justify it as anything more than that—opened the door. "Dean always finds me."

There wasn't a lot of point in arguing with something that could read his mind, and some part of him knew it. But it made him feel better than just sitting in passive silence—an impatience that had probably rubbed onto him off Dean—and if he could tick the thing off, that might be to his advantage. Sam kept his mind carefully blank of anything to do with opening the cage and attacking, and just stared ahead…slightly to the left of the thing pretending to be him. No point in grossing himself out even further.

Another warm chuckle. It was starting to really give him the creeps in a way the cage hadn't.

"I didn't say he couldn't find you. I said he isn't going to. You don't look for what you don't know is missing."

Sam's jaw sagged. The only way Dean wouldn't look for him was if…he was right there with his brother.

He didn't like where this was going.

Sam opened his mouth to retort when he realized the shifter had something in its…hand? Something like Sam's phone. That sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't fear for himself now.

The thing manipulated the phone without any fingers and held it up to its mouth like a walkie-talkie, which made sense considering it didn't have ears. Then again, it didn't have a mouth, either, but that didn't stop it from speaking into the phone with Sam's voice.

"Dean, it's me. Listen, uh, I got a call from a friend, at Stanford. I need to go out there for a few days—I'm already at the bus stop. I'm sorry, man, but you can handle this one, right?"

It waited. Listening. Sam's mouth was dry, and this time it wasn't because he was thirsty.

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry, I just got kinda caught up in this. But I'll meet you in Arizona after, all right? I'm not leaving, Dean, I promise."

That was when Sam thought he might be sick. Those same words had been stuck in his throat ever since Chicago, ever since he'd been smacked in the face by how badly he'd hurt Dean when he'd left for school. Sam had been saying some forms of those words ever since, obliquely sharing with Dean his silent promise never to leave his brother behind again. But to have it come not from him but this _mockery _of him, to reassure Dean on one of his most vulnerable points, possibly to lull him into letting his guard down… Sam was beyond scared now. He was _mad_.

"Dean!" he yelled, kicking himself for not having thought to do that before. "Dean, don't listen to him, it's a trap!"

The shifter turned away, its voice a murmur as it said something more, then flicked the phone off. It turned back to Sam, and though it had no mouth, Sam could hear its smile. "Nice try. Too bad reception was too poor for him to hear. I'll be sure to pass on your message later in person."

Sam yanked at the wire barrier between him and the shifter, knowing it did no good but too angry—and, yes, terrified—to do nothing.

"I'm going to go check on big brother. I'll be back." The thing glided off out of sight in a stride that was nothing like Sam's.

Okay. Okay, it could take memories. So had the skin in St. Louis, and Sam had seen through it in about thirty seconds. There were a million details that made up a person besides physical appearance: smell, movement, facial tics, words. If any one of them was off, especially after a time apart, Dean would be instantly suspicious. He would figure this out.

Assuming the shifter didn't kill him first. And assuming Sam was still alive and stuck in the cage.

He grimly made another circuit of the cage with his eyes. Corners and edges welded. Solid steel. Nothing to pick the lock with. Thick wire mesh…

There, that was the weakness. The wire was welded at each junction to the steel frames that made up the edge of each wall, but they were relatively small points of connection. If he could loosen just one, get a piece of wire free, he'd have his lock pick.

Hopeful for the first time, Sam crouched low and started to search.

00000

_I need to go out there for a few days—I'm already at the bus stop. _

It made sense. Sam would do anything for someone he cared about who needed him. As grudging as Dean was to admit that designation included a lot of people outside of him, he also knew he'd been the most frequent beneficiary of Sam's selfless tendencies. He couldn't resent Sam for wanting to do the same for one of his college buddies.

_I'll meet you in Arizona after, all right? I'm not leaving, Dean, I promise. _

He'd wanted to hear that. Craved it, needed it, built his life on it. Sam was back now, and he might not stay, but he was here now and not leaving any time soon. He'd been bending over backwards lately to prove as much, thanks to that little emo scene in the Chicago motel when Dean's defenses were scattered and down. But it was exactly what Sam would say, what he'd know Dean needed him to say.

So why was he dead sure something was wrong?

Dean set the phone on the front seat of the car where Sam usually sat, and stared at it, trying to piece together half-formed suspicions in his head. Sam had called, from his own phone. Said he'd gotten a call, although he hadn't bothered to say where he'd been at the time or how he'd gotten to the bus station. Which, okay, had been rather quiet, but Sam could have found a muted corner. There had been a murmur of other voices in the background at the end. It all fit.

Yet it rankled, like something buzzing his senses just below the conscious level.

_I'm not leaving, Dean, I promise._ Earnest words. Kind words.

Not Sam's words.

Dean was…well, ninety-five percent sure of it despite the obvious intent to fool him, but growing more certain every second. He couldn't put his finger on how he knew, but it wasn't Sam. Which considerably narrowed down the list of what they were dealing with.

Spirit? Only if it was Sam's. And Dean was not going there.

An astral echo: again, he wasn't buying this was some sort of final, dying message from his brother. Just, no way. It wasn't Sam on the phone, right?

So, some sort of mimic? Another Dr. Ellicott, or a shifter? Maybe a soul thief? Also not a pleasant thought, but thieves could be stolen from, too. It had to be something that could not only take on Sam's voice but also his knowledge, and that had a reason to want to fool Dean.

Fae. Possession. Springheeled Jacks. The list wasn't short. Too long to prepare for everything, to chase down every possibility. And meanwhile, what was happening to _his_ Sam?

Dean swallowed, firmly replacing fear with fury. Wondering what might be happening to his little brother would only weaken and distract. Rage…rage he could fight with. Rage was good.

Rage kept the what-ifs at bay.

Dean jammed the key into the ignition and turned the motor over. He needed to get back to the motel and do a little research before he started looking for his brother. Then, then it would be time to unleash.

He pulled up to their room ten minutes later and got out of the car in a purposeful stalk. Whatever this was had just messed with the wrong family. Dean would find pleasure in putting the fear of Winchester into…

He slowed, not quite stopping but suddenly alert. Someone was watching him.

Dean resisted the urge to glance around, just dug slowly into his pocket for the room key. Yep, that prickle on the back of his neck was definitely familiar. He was even willing to bet it was a some_thing_, not a someone.

He dropped the keys, feigning clumsiness, buying time. Picked them up casually, fiddled with the lock. Over to his right, behind the dumpsters. There was a flicker in the shadows he'd caught from the corner of his eye. A flash of dark hair, similar to Sam's.

He opened the door and went in, shutting and locking it after him. Then he was sprinting across the room for the bathroom and its tiny window.

It was a squeeze, but he was out of there a few seconds and layers of skin later. Pounding around the motel building, then slowing as he reached the alley and the dumpster. Silently, Dean circled the metal bin, a hunter on the prowl.

It was gone. The area behind the dumpster, the alley in both directions, was completely empty.

He slammed the open palm of his hand against the metal dumpster, cursing fluidly. His one link to Sam—probably—and he'd scared it off. Who knew if it would even be back?

_I'll meet you in Arizona, all right?_

No, that wasn't just a ploy to get him off the scent. It would be back, and before he left Utah. Dean would bet every hunter instinct he had on that.

And he was going to follow it back to Sam as soon as it did.

00000

He almost had it…

The chicken-wire mesh wasn't as solid as it looked. Sam had managed to find a loose end at the bottom of one of the sides, a joint that was a little less securely attached than the others. From there, he'd teased a frayed wire loose and started unwinding it from the others. The process had taken too long; his fingers were sliced and bleeding from the sharp wire. He had just started to get worried that the whole cage was one long strand woven back and through itself, when he reached the end, twisted around the bottom of one loop. With quiet exhilaration, Sam attacked the padlock.

It was nearly pitch-black now, the lock faced away from him, and he could only reach it from an awkward angle. But it was still less than a minute before Sam heard the solid click of the lock, and the padlock fell open.

It hurt to stretch his numb and cramped legs, and he couldn't even remember what it was like to not be shaking with cold anymore, but Sam couldn't have cared less as he limped away from the cage. Circulation and strength came back with each step. He was getting out of here.

He nearly walked into the wall before he saw it. Sam turned to the right and followed it by feel around a corner. It didn't take long to bump up against the edge of a doorway. Sam tamped down on his impatience and put his ear against the coated metal, listening.

Faint traffic sounds in the distance were all he could hear. That was good news: perhaps he wasn't as far from the motel as he'd feared. Cautiously, he pushed on the release bar and opened the door.

The blow came out of nowhere, before he had any chance to prepare.

The piece of wood slammed so hard into his midsection, it squeezed every last molecule of air out of his lungs. His diaphragm spasmed in protest. Sam dropped to his knees, arms wrapped around his gut and choking for breath.

The shifter was on him in a second. Sam barely had time to register the fuzzy hints of features in the pale oval before the first fist plowed into his face.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't get his hands up to protect himself. Couldn't do more than weakly buck at the figure straddling him, trapping his arms against his sides. Primal panic rose and wrapped its own fist around Sam's lungs.

Another blow followed, then another. Sam's vision grayed, and he wasn't sure if it was from the pain or the lack of air. _Dean. _Blood trickled down his throat instead of oxygen. He couldn't even take in enough breath to cry out or throw up.

The fists continued to fall. His chest hitched, letting in a little air but expelling it just as fast as his head snapped to the side from the force of the shifter's anger. Adrenaline flowed through his veins, but he could neither fight nor flee. _God, please. _Sam flailed helplessly one last time, trying to get away, but it was no use.

The half-formed face leaned into his frame of vision. "Just because I have to keep you alive a little longer doesn't mean I have to keep you healthy."

_Dean!_ Sam's mind screamed for his brother as the fist descended one last time. Then he knew nothing else.

00000

Dean grabbed the bag from the seat next to him and took it inside the room, senses cast outward for even the faintest spark of something. But there was nothing.

He'd stayed in all night, feigning sleep while keeping watch at the curtained window. When he hadn't had company by daybreak, Dean had switched to running errands, trying to look normal and unworried, giving whatever it was ample opportunity to come back and watch him. The bait hadn't been taken so far. Nothing pricked along his back, nothing looked out of place each time he returned to the room. Maybe his watcher had what it was looking for?

No. No, that wasn't right. It had pretended to be Sam, which meant it wanted something else besides the youngest Winchester. Maybe just an easy second victim? It wasn't the first time one of them had been used as bait to draw in the other, and if it knew them as well as it seemed to, it would know Dean would bite. His guest would be back.

God, he hoped it would be back. He had nothing else to go on.

Dean had spent a lot of the night on the computer. There had definitely been candidates for what he was facing. But just as he'd suspected, the options were too many to sort practically. It could be any kind of possession, shapeshifter, or a dozen beings that could mimic a person through everything from physical contact to—Dean swallowed hard as he read—ingestion of the flesh. And of course, the locations, the methods, the way to kill each one was different. Backtracking to where Sam had disappeared hadn't helped, either, nor had asking around town. Dean was fresh out of ideas.

The frustration welled up so fast and furious, Dean threw the grocery bag across the room before he'd even realized it. A bottle inside shattered against the wall, dropping the plastic bag to the floor with a wet sop. This wasn't happening again! The Benders had snagged Sam just weeks before. What were the odds of the kid going missing again? What, did Sam have some sort of cosmic _kidnap me_ sign pinned to his back?

Then again, with his _powers_ that had been showing up lately…

Growling, Dean grabbed the paper he'd picked up in town and stomped outside with it. There was a bench by the door, in plain sight of anything that wanted to come take a look at him. He was going to figure this out. Sam had been gone just over twenty-four hours now, and that was twenty-four hours too long.

The moment he stepped outside the door, however, Dean knew he had company.

The helplessness vanished as if it had never been there, the calm focus of a hunt taking its place. Okay, this he knew, this he could deal with. This meant he had a lead on Sam.

Dean sat with deceptive ease and pretended to start scanning headlines, his attention focused approximately thirty feet away, to his left. His audience seemed to have chosen a new location, behind a van this time. In the crook of the neighboring building, cutting off most of the avenues for departure. Dean's mouth twitched in a cold parody of his usual grin.

He waited with increasing impatience but forced himself to look relaxed. Dean had no idea what it was waiting for; maybe it was trying to learn his patterns, a little homework for when it was pretending to be Sam? Or maybe it was just curious. Maybe it even was worried he'd come after Sam after all, and wanted to make sure he was staying put. Oh, yeah, he was staying put.

A headline caught even his distracted attention, and Dean's eyes narrowed as he paused to skim the article, never losing track of his watcher. Interesting. And explaining a lot. Assuming, of course, his new friend was the one who had Sam. Dean's fingers suddenly crushed the edge of the paper. That was not a small assumption, come to think of it, and Dad had trained him never to assume. It left you off-guard when your assumptions turned out not to be true. Like, maybe there was just a Peeping Tom in the neighborhood, while whatever had Sam was enjoying slowly torturing his little brother, happily oblivious to Dean.

His jaw clenched, the newspaper folding in his white-knuckled grip.

But then why the phone call? And what human could move with the speed and stealth that thing had the evening before?

No. This was it. It had to be. Sometimes that was reason enough.

Dean waited, fingers stiff in their grip on the wrinkled paper. Not a stir from his guest. Maybe it was waiting for Dean to take the first step? He could do that.

He stood, stretched, and took a leisurely glance around before going back into the room.

Dean was out the bathroom window ten seconds later.

This time he came from a more protected direction, cars and trees giving him shelter. Maybe that made the difference, or maybe the thing was just getting sloppy, because when Dean reached where it had been hiding, a figure was retreating down a nearby alleyway.

Dean took off in silent, furtive pursuit.

His brain started noticing the details almost immediately. Shaggy dark brown hair atop a tall frame. A hooded sweatshirt and jeans. A loping gait Dean had always assumed was a defense mechanism for being inhumanly tall. He was following _Sam_.

It didn't even occur to Dean to call out.

He trailed after his mock-brother for several blocks, then ducked behind a corner when he saw the thing hesitate and glance around. Dean saw its face for the first time, and realized it wasn't a perfect copy of Sam, after all; the features close but a little off somehow, its movements not quite the younger Winchester's. But it was definitely a mimic of some kind.

It opened a door and went inside. Dean allowed himself no relief nor congratulations. It could be a trap. It could be a pit stop. It could be Sam was…

No, it couldn't.

He moved forward like a wraith, nigh invisible and just as deadly.

The door was too obvious. Dean's gaze scoured the red brick around it, found a window some ways down. It was small, but no smaller than the motel's bathroom window, he thought with a smirk. It was also unlocked, which gave him pause—trap? But there were no other options. Dean opened it and slid inside as soundlessly as he could.

The cage was the first thing he saw; it seemed to be the only thing in the whole, open area. A figure, clad only in its underwear, was propped in the nearer corner, its back to Dean.

He didn't need to see it to know who it was. To _know_ who he was. Sam was sitting too still and slumped for Dean's peace of mind, but he could see his brother's head bob weakly as he breathed, and the way he shook with shivers, and for now that would have to be enough. Dean made himself look away, seeking out the threat.

The thing was on the far side of the cage, watching Sam. As Dean watched it in turn, it put its hand to its forehead, then shook its head. When it looked up again, the dull hazel eyes had become more vibrant, almost Sam-like, the familiar angles and features of his—_its_—face a little sharper.

Dean gave a silent, horrified shudder. No way. Another shifter? Hadn't St. Louis been enough?

And he didn't have silver bullets with him.

Cursing a silent monologue inside his head, Dean kept to the very edge of the room where the shadows were the deepest, and crept closer. After a few steps, he pulled his Glock. Maybe the bullets weren't silver or lethal, but they'd still hurt. He'd settle for that right now.

Shifters could read their subjects' thoughts, could mimic and become, and were fast, but they weren't particularly supernaturally endowed otherwise. This one obviously had already inherited Sam's preoccupation and selective hearing, because it didn't turn until Dean was nearly upon it.

"You need a haircut," Dean said coldly. And then he emptied his gun into its chest, pretending it didn't look like Sam when its eyes widened in horror and it tumbled back.

Dean stabbed the empty gun into the back of his jeans, barely sparing the shifter a final glance before turning and striding to the cage.

He sucked in a breath at the sight of his brother. Even Sam's lolling head couldn't hide the fact his whole face was swollen and discolored with developing bruises. His breath wheezed through puffed lips, and he hadn't stopped shuddering from the cold that raised goosebumps along his body and washed his skin white-blue.

"Geez, how many walls you run into, bro?" Dean murmured under his breath, then called a soft "Sam" as his eyes darted to the lock. The shifter probably had keys on him, but…nah, this would be faster. Dean pulled out a pair of lock picks and got to work on the padlock. "Sammy!" he said again, more sharply.

Sam's head jerked, then slowly rose. The bruising was even worse than Dean had thought, making him wince. The damage had clearly been inflicted in the last few hours—the thing had already trapped Sam; why beat him up, too? That was just cruel, and Dean had to dial back his anger again to concentrate on the lock instead of leaving to pound the untouched version of Sam's face to match the original.

Sam was trying to open eyes that were nearly swelled shut. "Dean?" He coughed, grimacing.

"Yeah, it's me," he said warmly. "Hang on, I'll have you out in a second. How bad are you hurt?"

One hand slipped around his midsection, and Sam flinched again. "Just sore."

Dean saw the fingers trail streaks of flaking blood. He scanned the cage swiftly as he worked, noticing now the unraveled side, the dark-painted wire mesh. He had a sudden idea why the shapeshifter had jumped Sam. Pride mixed with empathic pain.

Sam suddenly jolted. "Dean! Shifter—"

"Under control, dude. It's down for the count. It's over."

Sam sagged, relieved. Dean shook his head and kept working, contemplating not for the first time how wrong their dad had been thinking Sam hadn't absorbed his training. He knew most of what Dean did, he'd just chosen to ignore it and go another way. But still he'd ended up here, in a shapeshifter's lair.

"Almost…"

Dean loathed seeing Sam in a cage. He ached seeing Sam hurt, feared seeing Sam in danger, died a little not seeing Sam at all. But seeing his brother in a cage, helpless and trapped, raised instinctive revulsion in him, an almost blinding rage that made it hard to think straight. Cages were for humiliation and hurting and keeping apart. The thought of anything wanting to do that to Sam left little to interpretation and a lot to avenge.

"…there." The padlock snapped open to the Winchester magic for the second time.

Dean threw it across the room, double-checking the unconscious shifter as he did. Then he crawled inside the cage, palming Sam's knee reassuringly as he crouched by his brother. He wanted nothing more than to get Sam out of there, but common sense prevailed. Sam hadn't moved an inch. One of Dean's hands went to the side of the younger man's head, the other to his wrist, checking pulse and damage, comforting. What Dean could see of the ginger-green eyes was confused and in pain. A tongue darted over the split and cracked lips, and Dean added hydration to their most urgent list of needs.

"So," he said softly, "what is it with you and cages, huh?"

Sam was pliant under his grasp as Dean turned his brother's hands, examining the cut fingers. When Dean lifted his shirt, Sam leaned his cheek into brother's palm. His breathing eased, his whole body relaxing. It was as close as they usually got to saying they were glad to see each other, and all Dean needed to be sure Sam knew he was safe.

"I don't know, man…," Sam whispered. "S'kinda comfortable."

It took Dean a second to realize Sam was continuing the joke, the raspy, congested voice sucking all the humor out of it. He was still trembling, stammering some of the syllables through chattering teeth. Dean quickly took his jacket off and leaned Sam forward against him to drape it around his back. What was it with shifters and cold, anyway? The St. Louis sewers had been chilly, too. His brother's chin hooked over his shoulder, and Sam loosened up a little more as he melted against Dean, soaking in his warmth.

It was déjà vu back to Lawrence this time, a choked Sam gasping for air against Dean's shoulder. He resisted the memory but went with what Sam obviously needed, pressing gently against the base of his neck to keep him close. The coldness of the younger Winchester's skin bled through Dean's two layers, chilling him, too. Without dislodging Sam, he pulled off his own boots, then his socks. His shoes wouldn't fit Sam, but the socks would provide a little warmth and protection at least. Dean worked them on his brother's feet one-handed, an inch at a time, smiling to himself at Sam's faint, "Gross." His own feet were freezing by the time he was done and could yank his boots back on; Dean could just imagine how his brother felt.

He waited until Sam's shivers were intermittent and he felt boneless and half-asleep against Dean, before giving him a careful nudge. "You ready to get out of here? Or we can stick around a while if you like it so much."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Maybe 'other time."

"Can you stand?"

"Yeah, just…"

_Help me_. Dean got it, didn't even need to be asked, as he started backing out of the cage, pulling Sam along with him. His brother's body swayed with shaky, uncoordinated lurches, but he was moving. Dean would have to be wary of signs of concussion, but otherwise it looked like most of the damage was merely uncomfortable and cosmetic. He could live with that. Better yet, Sam could.

Once they cleared the wire and steel cage, Dean stood slowly, bringing Sam up with him. His brother wobbled, dizzy and exhausted, but found his feet soon enough. He leaned against Dean, and they turned away from the horrible little prison cell and toward the door.

The body of the shifter was gone, not even a smear of blood to show where it had been.

Dean spit out a curse.

"What?" Sam asked, sounding a little more lucid with the movement.

"Your twin's gone. Let's get out of here before it decides to come back."

Sam didn't argue, just hooked his arm more firmly around Dean's neck and doggedly matched his steps. There was no car; they'd have to walk back to the motel. No way was Dean leaving his brother there with the shapeshifter still loose. They'd just have to take it slow.

Round two wouldn't end so well for the thing that had stolen his brother's face, but for now, Dean had his prize. He held Sam tighter to himself, felt the lean body willingly accept the warmth and support, and they walked out of there together.

00000

He sort of…tuned out somewhere around the second block. Sam could feel the hard cement beneath his sock-clad feet, and Dean pressed against his side, holding him up. But Sam gave up trying to pay attention to where they were going, what Dean was saying, or even watching for any threat. He just let everything slide out of focus, including how much his head hurt.

The change from cold to warm was the first thing that penetrated his comfortable haze. Sam opened his blurry eyes as far as he could to see familiar striped wallpaper instead of street and sky in front of him. And then—thank God, yes—he was sitting on something soft and not frozen. Bed.

Dean was holding him by just one arm now, and that was probably all that was keeping Sam up. Then there was something at his mouth, something wet, and Sam gave up on trying to see and just concentrated on drinking delicious lukewarm water. It stopped before he was quite ready, but at least he wasn't parched anymore.

Dean's voice had started up again, but Sam was too tired to understand. No response was demanded of him, though, as he was angled down onto his side, blankets pulled over him a few seconds later, effectively squelching the last of his rational thought in a simple wave of _Good. _

A warm hand pushed his bangs out of his face, then began dabbing his swollen skin with a damp cloth. That and Dean quietly talking to him were the last things Sam knew before he slept.

00000

"I'm all right, Dean."

"Uh-huh," Dean said absently as he filled in another word on the crossword puzzle. Elvis Presley's middle name: they always used that one. _A-R-O-N._

"Dean."

"Dude, quit whining," he shot back. "Okay, how 'bout this one—'Certain Succulents.'" He glanced up at Sam, grinning. "I can think of a few for that one."

"Cacti," Sam said, long-suffering in his tone.

_C-A-C-T-I,_ Dean wrote in, and nodded. "Cool. Okay, next one."

"Dean!"

He finally looked up, trying not to wince at the sight of his battered brother. At least it made it easier to hang on to his diminishing patience. "What, Sam?" As if he didn't know.

Sam was sitting against the headboard of his bed, looking like a colorful cousin of the Elephant Man, and still mostly blind. Two very good reasons Dean had declared they were holing up in the room for the next few days. But after a long sleep and a meal of soft foods and minimal chewing, Sam had gotten restless and annoyingly bossy. Hence arguments, and crossword puzzles. It used to be whining and crayons and board games, but Dean had adapted with age.

Sam crossed his arms. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Uh-huh," Dean answered as he wrote in _O-H-I-O_. That one was easy. "What time is it?"

Sam's head reared back at the apparent non sequitur, before turning to look at the bedside clock. Or trying to. His eyes could still barely open to anything wider than a slit, and Dean knew his focus was shot. "You're right. I'm totally defenseless without knowing what the time is," Sam finally said icily.

Dean knew frustration when he heard it, and empathized. He lowered the paper and sat up, dropping his legs from the chair they'd been propped on. "I told you, it was in the paper—this thing's gotten five people already. Lures them away, tortures them, kills them. It gets its kicks from hurting people before it wastes 'em." He tilted his head. "Nice little shifter family trait. It wants both of us, but it wants us separated so it can get to us."

"Dean, I can—"

"I know, you can take care of yourself. And, man, normally I'd agree with you. But the way your vision's messed up right now, what if the shifter gets by me and comes after you, Sam, huh? Or what if I need backup and call you? You can't even see to answer the phone. I'm not leaving you until we're _both_ ready to face this thing. That's the best hand we've got to play right now."

"Dude, it's wearing my _face_. The last time something did that to one of us, you ended up becoming a murder suspect."

Dean gave him a hard stare back, which would have been a lot more effective if Sam could have seen it. "No," he repeated flatly. "I'm not leaving you alone like this." He had the silver-loaded handgun in arm's reach in case the shifter came after them, but Dean wasn't about to go chase after it and risk Sam again. That wasn't up for debate. Ever.

"Dean, I'm not…" Sam swallowed. "I'm okay if you need to go, all right? I know you'll come back."

Aw, swell. This was about what the shapeshifter had said, Dean knew it. Which ranked somewhere below feminine products and selling the Impala for scrap on the list of things he wanted to talk about. He threw Sam an exasperated glare, also entirely wasted, and raised the newspaper again with a growl of, "Well, I'm not okay with it."

Sam watched him, or at least looked his way, in silence.

Dean stared at the crossword puzzle for a long minute before realizing he was really pretty sick of it. He flipped through the newspaper, looking for anything else of interest.

"Are you reading?" Sam's suddenly soft voice snagged Dean's attention effortlessly. "'Cause if you felt like reading out loud, I, uh, wouldn't mind listening."

Dean's irritation ebbed at the tentative request. Sam sounded almost like he was afraid to ask, and that, that was just wrong. Especially when he was also offering an olive branch without rubbing it in Dean's face. "Where's your book?" Dean asked quietly, dropping the puzzle onto the table in a flutter of newsprint.

"What book?"

"The one you've been reading at night when you're supposed to be sleeping," he answered with soft exasperation. "Dude, you know they made a musical out of that, right? No need to read that whole encyclopedia."

Sam's swollen face managed a twisted smile, and he leaned down to fish the fat novel out from under the bed. "_Les Miserables_ is a masterpiece, Dean. I bet even Stephen King likes it."

Dean plucked the book out of his hand, then shoved him over on the bed and stretched out so his socked feet pressed against Sam's elbow and ribs. "Yeah? Let's see what's so great about it."

He had to admit it, or rather, admit it to himself at least, because there was no way he was telling Sam. But that Hugo guy? Not half bad.

00000

As it turned out, the shapeshifter had been as impatient as Sam. Sam would muse later on whether it had inherited that from him, too. It certainly hadn't gotten its attitude toward Dean from him.

"Sammy, I'm gonna go get lunch. Stay inside, keep the door locked."

"Dude, just go already," Sam said, his attention half on the TV. They hadn't gotten rid of the pesky brownies yet, and this was one of the few ways he could still do research, listening to the news.

Dean snorted something about brats and opened the door.

The next thing Sam knew, his brother was flying across the room.

Sam instantly scrambled off the far side of the bed. This was, frustratingly, not a fight he was really able to join, but the least he could do was make himself less of a target. Dean would have enough worries without worrying about him, too.

Sam followed the fight by sound. Dean climbing to his feet with a grunt. The soft, pained sound in Sam's tones as his brother punched the shifter. Another grunt as the shifter returned it. The table falling casualty to the fight as it grew more heated, then one of the chairs. Dean's muttered curse, and a hissed taunt from the shifter.

Something was wrong.

Sam opened his eyes as wide as they would go, ignoring the painful stretch of bruised skin. Dean was slowly retreating, on defense rather than offense. Sam couldn't see more than that, the details of moves and expressions too blurred. But Dean was losing, that much was clear.

Because Dean was fighting him, _Sam_. Not in his head, which knew better, but in his heart. Sam remembered the feeling well. Even as he had spat at another shapeshifter, "You're not him," there was still something instinctively reluctant about going full-on against something that wore your brother's face.

Sam cast his impaired gaze frantically around the room, trying to focus enough to see…there. Dropping to his knees, he crawled toward the nearest corner of the room.

"Sam!" It was Dean's gritted voice. "Get…back."

He clenched his jaw and kept going, almost feeling Dean push harder against his attacker. Defending Sam warred against not wanting to hurt his double. Still, it might not be enough. Sam hurried on, cursing under his breath as he knocked against the leg of an upended chair.

He reached the Glock just as he heard Dean cry out. There was no hesitation, just spin, point, shoot.

The blurry shape with its mop of dark hair wavered, upraised hand falling in slow motion. But the shiny slash of a knife it held tumbled out of its grasp onto the floor, joined a moment later by the shifter.

For a second, there was only the harsh sound of breathing, and Dean's weak, "Nice shot."

Sam slid over to help Dean slide out from under the body. He pushed himself up against the foot of the bed, and Sam flopped beside him.

"Y'all right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just—ow—nicked me. Those freakishly long arms of yours are _lethal_, dude."

"Sorry," Sam said sympathetically, feeling along Dean's tightly clasped arm to where his side was warm and wet.

"Not your fault," Dean said automatically, sucking in a breath as Sam reached damaged skin.

That was always Dean's answer, but Sam chose to listen to him this time. He peeled his brother's elbow away with a sure touch. There wasn't a lot of blood and the tear in the t-shirt wasn't long. Sam wadded it up and pressed it against Dean's side.

"You do realize I could do that, too, right? I can see it and everything." Dean sounded a little amused, and only slightly pained.

"Shut up," Sam said waspishly. He weighed his brother's voice, how much he was shaking, how tense he was, and decided Dean would live. Sam sat back tiredly against the end of the bed and leaned his shoulder against Dean's, still pressing hard with the heel of his hand. "Why do these things come after us, anyway?"

Dean barked a laugh. "What doesn't?"

He shrugged, conceding the point. "True." No vendetta, no malice aforethought, just wrong place, wrong time, and a twofer deal on brothers no self-respecting shapeshifter could pass up. It was just their kind of luck.

There was a pause, then, "Sam?"

"What?"

"You did see what you were shooting at, right?"

His mouth pulled painfully into a smile. "I just aimed for the tall one."

"Dude, that's cold."

Sam winced as he noticed something. "Dean, is the body doing what I think it's doing?"

"You mean dissolving into white glop? Yeah, pretty much."

"Sick." So much for getting his clothes back.

"Uh-huh."

A beat. He was waiting for it.

"I always thought you were a marshmallow inside."

Sam broke out laughing, and didn't care how much it hurt.

00000

"You ready to go?" Dean asked, eyes sweeping the room to make sure they hadn't left anything behind.

Sam came out of the bathroom, duffel in hand. "I grabbed your aftershave—it was on the sink."

"Yeah, thanks." Dean gave the place one more glance, then shook his head. "Won't mind getting out of here."

Sam smiled at him, the expression comfortably familiar again on his almost-healed face. His cheek, forehead, and chin were still dotted with the yellow-green of healing bruises, just enough to encourage the sympathy of every waitress in town but no longer the swollen mess that had made even Dean cringe. "You're just saying that because the motel owner charged us for the broken furniture."

"I'm saying it because it still smells like melted shapeshifter in here," Dean shot back. He picked his duffel up with barely a wince for his healing side. "I still can't believe he bought your 'what smell?' wide-eyed act…or as wide-eyed as you can get right now, anyway. The guy's a total amateur."

"Or maybe he just doesn't know me like you do," Sam said with unexpected seriousness. Before Dean had to react, his brother was outside, leaving Dean to stare after him.

Dean had wondered sometimes. Just a little bit, late at night, if he would know an imposter. Sam had recognized almost immediately the shifter in St. Louis wasn't Dean. Was he as tuned to Sam?

He watched Sam's long figure fold into a crouch to coax a stray dog closer, the mutt approaching warily but soon puddling into Sam's enthusiastic scratching. Both boy and dog were in heaven. Sam looked up as Dean pulled the door shut behind him, eyes clear and, for a moment, full of unadulterated happiness.

Dean opened the car's back door and tossed his bag in. "You bring any fleas with you into my car, you're running alongside ," he warned.

"Don't worry, he's all bark and no bite," Sam told the dog solemnly behind Dean's back.

Dean grinned to himself. Yeah, he nodded. He'd know.

**The End**


End file.
